Epaulettes
by Bazylia de Grean
Summary: "His fingers move along the epaulettes. It has been a long way, a damn long way, and every proverbial stitch is a memory, a constant reminder, of everything." Mass Effect universe. Various scenes from Hackett's life, from before the First Contact War until well after the events of Mass Effect 3. Eventual femShep/Hackett. Companion piece to "Binary Star".
1. Epaulettes (Prologue)

Special thanks to my fabulous beta, **Janka**.

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**1: Epaulettes (Prologue)  
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**. . .**

There is blue and white and bits of green again. There are still grey areas, dim and covered in debris and ash, but up close those too would be dotted with colour of grass and sprouts and after-rain pools. Earth is once more becoming alive, a sapphire against the darkness of space.

Hackett takes a deep, slow breath. No matter how many times he has already seen it, the view never ceases to amaze him, to move something within him he used to forget was even there.

"_Leaving the orbit, sir._" A female voice from the comm interrupts his moment of peace. "_Charon relay approach in fifteen minutes. And I believe there's a message from your wife on your private terminal_."

Hackett shakes his head in amused resignation. "Lieutenant Chandra." He remembers to keep his voice stern, even though he does not believe for one moment his adjutant will be moved by it. "Which part of 'private' don't you understand?"

There is a muffled cough. "_She send me a message to remind you, sir."_

"You are a terrible liar, Lieutenant. Hackett out." He disconnects, then activates his omni-tool.

He has been expecting the message for a few days now – another medical report. Whenever he is away, he gets those regularly. When at Arcturus, of course, he always tries to convince Theresa to let him accompany her, and she always declines by saying it is just a routine check. It _is_ a routine medical examination, but that does not help the fact that every time there is anxiety nagging quietly at his mind. It is not quite how he pictured his happily ever after...

Hackett starts, then laughs at himself. God, he has never really pictured a happily ever after. There was a point in his life he thought dimly about having a family, maybe, someday, and then the chance was gone and... Then, Theresa happened. And he has never imagined he would be granted that much, never truly hoped for half what he has now. At times, it is still difficult to believe he has been granted that many miracles.

He deactivates the omni-tool and gets up; it is getting late, and were Theresa with him, she would crook a smile and tell him to rest, and they would both laugh at that – one of their many little private jokes. He takes off his uniform jacket, hanging it on the back of the chair. Once, he would have never treated it so carelessly, but there are more important things. His fingers move along the epaulettes. It has been a long way, a damn long way, and every proverbial stitch is a memory, a constant reminder, of everything. The Alliance, the Navy – those have always been a significant part of his life. For many years, those have been the _only_ life he had. But there is more, much more, and as he fingers the admiral epaulettes of his uniform again, he turns to memories. Not of his military career, but of what was before and all the moments in between.


	2. Discoverer

Special thanks to my fabulous beta, **Janka**.

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**2: Discoverer**

**. . .**

He is five when he starts asking about his father. Of course, he has noticed other children do not have a mother only, but simply never paid much attention to it: his mother has been his whole world. Well, not quite whole, but with his mother and the _abuelos_ he needed no more. But then, when other boys in the neighbourhood started talking the usual 'I'd be a doctor, like my Dad!' and 'Mine's better, he's a fireman!', and when it was Steven's turn, he was stunned momentarily for he had no idea what to say.

It is not that _Mamá_ does not tell him of Father. There's a picture of him on Steven's nightstand, and another one in the living room – a wedding photo, back when there were no strands of silver in his mother's hair. So, there are pictures. And _Mamá_ tells stories. Just... his father is a hero, but so are engineer Cyrus Smith and Captain Nemo – they are stories, fantastic, and he loves them in a way, but they are just stories.

That evening, he walks out onto the tiny balcony, where Mother is watching stars again, always searching for the same constellation.

"_Mamá_?"

She turns to him, all warm smile, kneels beside him and puts an arm around his bony shoulders. "Hey, adventurer."

He looks up at her, his eyes too serious for his childish face. "Tell me of Dad." It is always 'Dad', not '_Papá_', he realises, and _Mamá_ must have noticed it too, for a shade of sadness clouds her features.

"Steve, I've told you so many times."

"Please?"

_Mamá_ ruffles his hair affectionately, planting a light kiss on the top of his head. "We have to cut your hair a little, before you turn into a lamb. Gosh, your hair grows so fast..."

"_Mamá_," he says, and it is a rebuke.

She sighs, then pulls him closer. Finally, she begins talking. "Dad was a scientist. Not the type that would stick to the lab, no. He was an adventurer."

"Like engineer Smith."

"Right. Just like him."

Steven has heard the story countless times before, but for the first time he is truly listening to it. For the first time he is aware this is no fairy tales or adventure novel, but a memory of a real man. So he listens as _Mamá_ tells how Father joined a scientific expedition, volunteering for an exploration mission, and how he never came back – she would not tell why exactly.

"Where is he now?" Steven asks when the story is over.

_Mamá_ points somewhere between one constellation and another. "There." There is a bittersweet smile on her face. She means it like 'in Heaven', or that his body is up there among the starts, or both.

But for little Steven, it means his father is up there, and he vows quietly that one day he will go up among the stars and find Father. He will bring him home so _Mamá_ would smile more often and would stop crying in the night. One day, when he is old enough, he will. He will go up there, talk to God and ask Him to give Father back, for surely they need him more.

"I want to be an explorer," he announces with all the seriousness of a five-year-old. "Or an engineer, like Cyrus Smith."

"All right, my little engineer, whatever you wish. But now it's time for little engineers to go to sleep, so they can wake up and start looking for new adventures earlier." She scoops him up and carries him to his room, then tucks him in. "Sleep well, dear"," she whispers, just before turning off the light.

Later in the night, he wakes up and hears _Mamá_ is crying again. In the morning, he is almost certain that if he looked closely, he would find some new streaks of silver in her hair.


	3. Shells

Special thanks to my fabulous beta, **Janka**.

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**3: Shells**

**. . . **

When Steven wakes up it is past nine, and he is somehow confused _Mamá_ did not come to wake him, like she always does. Well, maybe she finally listened to his advice and decided to get some rest. Lately, _Mamá _has been looking tired. Steven pretends he does not notice, so that she would not have to worry about him worrying, but he can see. The day to day changes are subtle, and he could have missed it if not for the photos. One day, when he was looking through the family photo album, there was a photo from a year ago, half a year ago, two months ago, and on each picture _Mamá_ looked paler, more tired.

Yes, Steven decides, getting off the bed. She really should get more sleep today. And he will go to the kitchen and prepare breakfast.

The breakfast is just simple sandwiches and milk – for once, he wishes he could cook, but cooking is really of no interest to a boy of twelve – but this will have to do. Quietly, he opens the door to _Mamá_'s bedroom, and tiptoes inside. He puts the tray on the bedside table, then goes over to the window to draw back the curtains.

She looks as if she was asleep. There is a small smile on her lips, and her pale face is serene and strangely radiant in the soft daylight. But when he touches her shoulder, _Mamá_ does not move.

An hour later María finds him curled up beside _Mamá_. Steven does not know what happened next, but he remembers not being able to cry.

. . .

The doctor says it was something with a long and difficult name Steven cannot remember, but deep down he knows that it was a heartbreak. He no longer wants to find Father – because it is impossible, and even if it was not, he does not want to talk to Father, nor think of him, because Father took _Mamá_ away, all for himself, leaving Steven alone. He no longer wants to talk to God, either, because how could He allow it to happen, and not tell Father it was a wrong thing to do?

With the _abuelos_ long gone, there is no one to care for him. María – the student who has been renting a room at their house for the last two years – the room used to belong to the _abuelos_, but they had to make a living somehow after _Mamá_ had to give up work because of her health... Anyway, the girl looks after him a little, making sure there is a dinner and that he eats something, and goes to sleep in the evening and does not stay in bed for the entire day, even though that is what he would wish most, to hide under the cover and never come out again... But he does get out, every day, because that is what _Mamá _would like him to do.

Steven knows what will happen next – someone from social care will show up, eventually, and he will have to go to an orphanage. He promises himself quietly he will never leave home... Except that, with every passing day, it remind him less of home and more of an empty shell, like the ones he used to look for on the beach during summer trips with _Mamá_ – shells with echoes – _only_ echoes – of the ocean inside.

During the second week, a stranger suddenly appears at the door – an older man, one Steven does not recognize, with a stern face and pale eyes. He shows María some identity card and a letter, then waits patiently until she finishes skimming through the documents and nods. The he announces Steven is to be admitted to the Advanced Training Academy for Juveniles, a school he has heard about once in the evening news. _Mamá_ asked him, then – just making conversation – if he would like to go there one day, then ruffled his hair, her little everyday custom of affection, and told him he would have to learn well, and they would see. He dimly remembers how later she was sitting at the computer, shooing him away and repeating he should let her work, and after supper he heard her quarrelling with the _abuelos_, their first that serious argument in ages. And now this stranger appears, and if Steven was less stricken by grief, he would think very hard if there was a connection between this and that scene from a few months ago.

So when the stranger asks if he would like to go, Steven agrees almost immediately, because home no longer feels like home without _Mamá_ in it, and he cannot even bring himself to feel sadness at the thought he might never return again. At the threshold he stops for a moment, looking up, into the clear blue sky, searching for stars he cannot see. His path is clear, leading up there, and he wants to follow it, simply because there is nothing else left.

. . .

He is obediently waiting in the hall, in front of some kind of office – the man that took him there mentioned something about having to talk to the Academy's Vice-Chancellor or someone with an equally importantly sounding name. The door is slightly open, and Steven can hear muffled voices from the inside, nothing clear enough to discern more than single words, some of which he does not quite understand.

The plate at the wooden door informs that the office belong to 'Philip Kenson, PhD', and Steven assumes the second 'P' must be for 'Professor'. Anyway, whoever this Kenson is, with his beard and glasses he definitely looks like a Professor, and Steven will never call him otherwise in his thoughts.

"Hi there," speaks a high-pitched voice somewhere to the right.

Steven turns. Professor's daughter is sitting on the floor nearby, probably waiting for her father – he must have missed her before, too absorbed in what is going to happen to him now. She is holding a book in her hands, but she is not reading. When Steven glances in her direction, she smiles at him briefly.

"I'm Amanda."

"Steven," he mutters, hoping to dissuade her from talking.

"My, you're not very talkative..."

The voice in the office move a bit closer to the door, and Steven can actually hear the talk now if he strains a little. Immediately, his full attention in on what both men inside are saying, the girl with a book all forgotten.

"He is too young." This must be Professor, for the voice is completely unfamiliar. "Smart, I'll give him that, but not a genius."

"He'll grow up," snaps the other man, whom Steven still calls Stranger. "And you can teach him."

"What?!" There is a distinct pause. "Am I supposed to take care of him now? Why?"

The older man's tone remains impassive. "You owe me one. Also, there's this donation the Academy received, well, let me think, yesterday?"

"I'll transfer all the money back onto your account."

"Fine. We can keep transferring it back and forth. Until, soon enough, I suppose, there'll be no account to transfer the money to, so either way, I win."

"I'm not going to continue this discussion."

"Then bloody don't. But take the boy in."

Professor sighs. A prolonged silence follows. And then, quietly, both with acceptance and defeat he says: "So be it."

When Professor approaches Steven to announce he will now live with Professor and his family, neither of them seems too happy about it.

. . .

Strangely, most of the stay both at Professor's home and later in the Academy are just a collection of blurry imagines, almost no substantial memories to them. That must have been, Steven concludes, a happy time.

He remembers the library, a big room all filled up with books – paper ones, not digital – smelling slightly of dust and printer ink. He remembers an exquisitely carved wooden chessboard. Countless classical music discs - Bach, Mozart, over three dozen arrangements of Pachelbel's _Canon_, and many more, including some so called modern classics like Zimmer or Morricone. He remembers Amanda, repeating her French lessons, and laughing with him at dinner table, and Professor smiling indulgently at them both. Professor smoking a pipe, watching him and Amanda making attempts at playing chess. Himself, asking Professor to explain one or another astrophysics term. There are more similar memories, all melting into a kaleidoscope, with only two distinct points. One of them is when he left Professor's house, the other – when he arrived.

. . .

Late in the night, long after Professor and Amanda showed him the house, and long after dinner, he cannot sleep. As noiselessly as he can, he gets up, takes his explorer's torch – one he can put on his head – and sneaks downstairs, to the library, hoping to find something to read and keep his mind off thinking. Turning the torch on, he walks slowly along the shelves, tracing letters on some books' spines, taking some books out to get a glimpse at the cover. It is very quiet in here. It is also very dark, but Steven has never been afraid of darkness, and definitely not when he has his torch. For the first time since _Mamá_ passed away he is becoming interested in something – discovering what wonderful tomes are treasured in the library.

Among many valuable books, there is an early French edition of Verne's _Mysterious Island_. Steven does not understand a word, but there are illustrations, real masterpieces, and those are enough to identify the story. He remembers _Mamá_ first telling, then reading it to him. He remembers her soft voice, a tender smile on her face, her arm warm across his bony shoulders... and now, there is _nothing_.

Steven remains seated on the floor, his back against the wall, for quite a long time. Hidden behind a bookshelf, he is clutching the book to his chest, keeping his eyes tightly shut. He is a big boy and big boys are not supposed to cry, but if the torchlight is turned off and he has his eyes closed and does not see it, no one will ever know.


	4. Diplomacy

Special thanks to my fabulous beta, **Janka**.

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**4: Diplomacy**

**. . .**

They are sitting on the terrace, talking quietly, enjoying the summer breeze. Amanda is perched on the wide wooden balustrade, swinging her feet lazily. Steven and Philip Wainwright – Amanda's friend from the Academy, and for some time also Steven's – are half-lying on the stairs, bathing in the sun.

Philip has come over a few days ago, for Steven's farewell party. Well, calling it a farewell party is an overstatement, it is just a meeting of friends, to celebrate closing one chapter of education and talk of plans for the next one.

"C'mon, Philip, tell us," beckons Amanda, flashing her most charming smile.

"Fine, fine. But remember, it's still a secret." Philip rises his glass and takes a few sips of iced coffee.

"Blast it, man, tell us already." Steven rolls his eyes exasperatedly, fed up with the secrecy.

"A project with Newman Blueprints." Philip grins. "On Terra Nova."

Amanda spills iced coffee all over her shorts. "You're friggin' kiddin' me."

"I'm serious. Like, serious serious." Philips straightens a little, so that he will not have to crane his neck to look at Amanda. "I'm joining the living compound design team."

Perfectly understandable, Steven thinks, considering Philip is studying Space and Extraterrestrial Designs.

"You'll be away all the summer?" Steven asks, somehow disappointed. He is happy for Philip, but still he would like to be able to spend more time with his friend. Maybe once he begins studying at MIT, too, it will be possible.

"Nope. I'm getting a week off, just before the beginning of next semester. So, maybe a little trip? Just the three of us and some mountains."

Amanda brightens up. "Sure. Steve?"

"Count me in. Just have to check my calendar, there's a summer course on mass effect physics I'd hate to miss." Steven gets up and quickly walks inside, shouting "I'll be right back!" over his shoulder.

. . .

As he is walking to his room to grab the calendar, he overhears Professor talking on the phone.

"Massachusetts Institute of Technology," Professor says, not without pride.

Knowing very well he should respect Professor's privacy, he stops at the half-open door to listen, because his intuition tells him something is off.

Professor turns and Steven is not quick enough to back off.

"Steven. Come in." Professor waves at him to approach, then speaks into the phone: "I'll call back later." There is a pause, when Professor is waiting for the response from the other side of the line. "What do you mean: no need to..." He sighs, then puts the phone back onto his desk.

"Remember when we've talked about your account? You now have full access to all the money. And it's official." Professor smiles.

It is good news, as pursuing Steven's dream field of study, astrophysics, will in all probability be too time-consuming to allow him to take a full-time job, and if he wants to take his scientific interests seriously, there might be no time for a job at all. But there is more to the matter, there is something hidden behind Professor's seemingly genuine smile.

And then Steven realises _that_ is the crux of the matter: money. Mother left him all they had, but it would not be enough. And...

"The man who brought me here," Steven says suddenly, and registers a brief flash of discomfort on Professor face. "Who is he?"

"Your grandfather,' Professor says evenly.

Steven's world stops dead in its track. Grandfather? At first, he is overwhelmed by unexpected joy at discovering there is someone he can still call a family. Far away, yes, but still... As swiftly as it came, Steven's happiness is blown away by a sudden realisation.

He has a grandfather, of whom he knew nothing for all those years, who never cared to as much to inform Steven of his existence? Why would Mother never mention him? Why did the damn man say nothing, why did he let his grandson live with a stranger rather than take care of him himself? Those are only some of the question flashing at light's speed through Steven's mind.

"You've never told me," Steven says and it comes out sounding like an accusation, even if he did not exactly mean it to. Professor is not guilty of anything, no; the blame lies with that man whose face Steven cannot even recall. _Grandfather_, he thinks, and the word has a mocking ring to it.

"I promised not to tell anything until you asked directly." Professor looks him in the eye. "You never did," he adds, not judgemental, but it makes Steven feel uneasy nonetheless.

At first, he had been too immersed in grief, then too immersed in what turned out to be a far happier time than he expected.

"Tell him I don't want his money. Tell him-..."

"Tell him yourself," Professor interrupts calmly, then reaches out to put a hand on Steven's arm. Steven steps back. Professor sighs, heavily. "Steve, I know I should've told you. But I gave my word. I couldn't refuse someone who is my friend. Used to be." Professor pauses. "I'm sorry."

Steven just shakes his head, too wrapped up in sudden anger to actually listen to Professor's words. "I want to talk to him."

Professor looks at him, his stare piercing. He indicates the phone. "Last dialled number." Then he turns and walks out of the studio, noiselessly closing the door behind him.

. . .

It takes Steven over half an hour to pluck up his courage. At first, he wants to call immediately, to shout out all these conflicted feelings boiling inside. Then, as the first shock slowly wears off, he changes his mind. Call and say what? Why should he even bother, if he is a stranger to that man on the other end of the line? Then again, maybe there is a reason for it all. Maybe his grandfather is short on funds, maybe he is busy, maybe he is living far away, maybe... Steven shakes his head. This is just pathetic grasping at straws. If the man could afford to take Steven all the way to the Academy, if he had money to pay for his education and accommodation... Money or distance was not a problem here; just a simple question of will. Realisation hits Steven with full force: he is not wanted. His grandfather gave him away to be brought up by a stranger, and paid for not having to see him again.

This is the impulse he needed; without even noticing what he is doing, Steven holds the phone pressed to his ear, listening to the signal with somehow baited breath.

"Finally," snaps the voice in the receiver, assuming it is Professor calling back.

Steven is completely at a loss, not knowing what to say, and he entertains the thought the thought of just hanging up and forgetting all this. But he has never been a coward.

"Kenson?" asks the voice, irritated.

"It's Steven." Steven says. He swallows. "Steven Hackett," he adds.

There is a momentary silence at the other end of the line.

"What do you want?" asks the voice – his grandfather, damn it, speaking to him as if he was a total stranger, as if he was just a random boy, and Steven is not certain whether he is more angry or hurt.

"To talk." He takes a breath. This proves much harder than he thought it would be. "Don't you owe me some explanation, at least?"

"No, I don't think so," says the voice decisively. "And even if I did, that's not a topic to be discussed on the phone."

The calm tone is beginning to get on Steven's nerves. "If you think I'll ever want to see you face to face..."

"So much the better for both of us," the man answers dryly. "Is there anything substantial you wanted to ask, or are we going to keep talking nonsense?" he asks, with a precisely added hint of impatience.

"You... You..." Steven is trying to find some kind of invective, or to accuse his _grandfather_ of abandoning him, of never actually being there in his life, but words fail him.

"I provided you with a chance for a good life," the man says with absolute confidence, and it is too much.

Steven's hands curl into fists, but he is determined not to let anger show in his voice. "I never asked for it," he says, then disconnects abruptly, not waiting for a reply. He quells the urge to just throw the damn phone at the wall and puts it back onto the desk.

The Academy was a good time, and, truth to be told, he has always thought of pursuing a scientific career... But he will accept _nothing_ from this man who thinks he is entitled to deciding someone else's life. He will find a job, and pay the blasted man back every damn cent. Hells, he will do it even if that means giving up the studies he has been dreaming of for the last two years. He wants to forget this so-called grandfather who never cared to do as much as talk to him. Steven swears he will owe this man nothing, that he will pay his debts and then forge himself a future that will be all of his own making.

He turns and walks out of the room, closing the door behind him with a thud. He is too angry and disappointed to think to think that giving up his plans will harm no one but himself.

. . .

"I'm going to join the Alliance military," announces Steven at dinner. "The Fleet," he clarifies. The Fleet is still forming, as the Alliance is a fresh construct, and they need more people. Plus, they would pay for his education if he decided to become an engineer or tech specialist, which, considering the fact he will also get normal soldier's wages, would in turn allow him to pay the unwanted debt to his grandfather and still get technical studies that might have anything to do with science.

Professor very calmly takes a sip of water and carefully puts the glass back on the table. Only then he glances up at Steven.

"I thought you'd like to pursue a scientific career." They have, in fact, discussed that a few times. Steven is good at physics, and with some effort he could easily get a degree and become a lecturer at one university or another within a few years. Or maybe a scientist, working in a lab.

Steven shakes his head. "I want to travel," he says. "To discover other planets." That is true. Partly. Was true, once. What he really wants is to do as much the opposite to what his grandfather wishes as he can. If that means a conflict with Kenson, so be it.

Professor's stare is piercing. "Are you absolutely certain that's what you want?" he asks evenly.

Steven nods once.

Professor gets up, his palm resting flat on the table. "You have a week to find yourself another lodging, then." Slowly, he turns, then walks towards the door. There he stops, without turning. "You were a son to me," he says very quietly, before walking out of the room. If Steven was not so wrapped up in emotions, he might have noticed how for the first time Professor looks old, and might have actually listened to the words telling he really _does_ matter to someone.

. . .

Next day, after breakfast – which is really awkward, with Professor treating him like he would a stranger, kind, but cold and impersonal – Amanda comes upstairs to his room. She stops at the door, startled by the sight of Steven's already prepared backpack and a small pile of clothes on the bed.

"Blast it, Steve, don't be an idiot," she says, exasperated. "Can't you two just try to talk, instead of..."

"Drop it, Amanda" Steven suggests, his full attention on stuffing another T-shirt into the backpack. "I'm not going to apologise, if that's what you mean." This is his youthful pride speaking, but not only. He is afraid that Professor would try to make things right, to talk him out of his hasty plan. And he is afraid he would not find enough strength of will not to give in, because he is not that set on losing the only family he has know for the last six years.

"Bloody hells, Steven!" Amanda curses only rarely, and by that he knows how furious she is with the whole situation. "Father wants you to have a career and a safe job, not go out there never to be heard of again!"

"From what he said it seems he already has my career planned." This is unfair of him, for they have planned everything together, and Professor never tried as much as to talk him into anything, only offering sound advice. But Steven cannot bring himself to be truly bothered. There is a debt he wants to get off his shoulders, and this is what matters to him most right now.

"He cares," Amanda says quietly. "_I_ care. You've been my brother for six years, and now what?"

Steven finally looks up. "That's entirely up to you." He knows he should not behave like that, but controlling all the conflicted emotions is too much right now. Besides, it is easier when he lets himself be wrapped in anger, and can quieten the nagging whispers of his rational part, which keep trying to tell him this is not a good way out.

For a moment, Amanda stares at him with disbelief. He expects her to say he will end up dead like his father, or that he will squander his potential, or just that she is pissed, anything. But Amanda just turns and walks away, closing the door behind her quietly, and Steven has the most disturbing feeling he has just screwed something up, and that it will be impossible to ever truly put it right again.


End file.
